


Valerie and the Aliens

by TheStrange_One



Category: Original Work
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Original Character(s), Past Abuse, Past Rape, Sentient Plants, Swords, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStrange_One/pseuds/TheStrange_One
Summary: Six years ago the Tensha, a humanoid alien race, arrived at Earth and bombarded the planet with alien plants before systematically trying to destroy the humans. Five teenagers are the only ones to have the power to stand against them, and become known as the Heroes. Two years after the fighting begins, one of the Heroes, Valkyrie, leaves the group and does her best to stay out of the oncoming war.Four years later, it has come for her again.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So. Two fun facts here. 1) I'm used to posting at least once a day (usually twice) and I've just been too tired, so I dug up this old story and decided to share. (I feel a little guilty to my author subscriber base on how little I've been able to post lately.) 2) This actually started life out as a Tokyo Mew Mew fanfic, but got both too original and too derivative, so all original characters, not so original plot. Also, this story hit a stand still. If people like it I might try to revisit it, but it hit a wall and I wasn't sure how to fix it. Feel free to offer suggestions on where things should go from here. Feel free to comment; comments are always welcome.

The rain fell like a curtain separating the world into several different parts. It felt like part shield, part cell keeping her separate from all other humans—almost as though she was the last human in the world. It slid off her slicked hair, soaked into her jacket, and splashing through the puddles soaked her pants and shoes. She didn’t care. She didn’t look where she was going. She didn’t have a destination.

Suddenly, through the ever-present sound of rain, she heard something. A single, sharp musical note. Without thinking much about it she changed direction to follow the sound as more notes poured into the air. They almost glistened like real objects as she followed them to their source—an open air tent that was little more than a giant umbrella.

Inside, on a colorful woven rug, was a man playing an acoustic guitar. On the rug next to him was a second, slightly smaller guitar of the same type. A simple cloth band held his long hair out of his face, and his eyelids sagged over the sockets where his eyes should have been. His fingers moved delicately over the strings with the help of a simple, triangular pick. The music wound to a close and he spoke. “So, my music has lured another lost soul to my door. Tell me, Lost One, what is your name?”

It wasn’t as though her name mattered much anymore. “Valerie,” she said dully.

“Val-er-ie,” said the man lightly strumming a string with each syllable. “Too many sounds for a Lost Soul. Do you mind if I call you Valley?” She shook her head and then realized he couldn't see her as he laughed. “Good. Now, Valley, grab that guitar and let me teach you how to play.”

Valerie picked up the guitar and sat next to the man. She took off her gloves (still miraculously dry, but she didn’t think much of it) and placed her hands on the strings in an imitation of how the man was holding his.

“Good. Now let me tell you the most important thing about music.”

For the first time in far too long, she felt curiosity stirring. “What is it?” she asked.

“As long as you have music, you can always find your way home.”


	2. 1

“To me,” the last notes of the song sound through the almost silent bar as the patrons look at me. I sit up, reach to the table on my left, and grab my glass of lemon water, the strongest thing I’ll drink in here.

Suddenly the bartender speaks up. “Damn Valley,” he snarls, “that was depressing! It’s Friday night, play something happy!”

I grin over the crowd at him. “Happy is it?” I ask.

“Something we can dance to!” requests a patron at one of the tables next to the dance floor.

“All right!” I launch into another song of my own creation, _Wild Road_. It actually sounds better as part of a band than just a guitar, but they don’t really care. I don’t blame them. At the end of the day, it’s just a song.

I play happy, dancing songs and watch the dancers stomp their feet to the beat I’m setting. There’s something oddly fulfilling about this sort of thing, and I can’t help but feel warm inside when I hear people protest me taking a break.

I keep the guitar with me as I make my way to the bar (learned that lesson the hard way), and without asking George passes me another glass of lemon water, lemon slice still floating on top of the ice. “Any news about the band?” I ask him as the dancing devolves into conversation.

“They’re not working here ever again,” growls George.

Tanya, the waitress, shakes her head as she passes by me. “They got another, _better_ job offer,” she informs me tartly before hurrying her tray of drinks over to a table.

So, they left for the new job without even notifying their current job that there was something in works. That’s just unprofessional and they’d better pray the other job comes through—they’ve burned their bridge at this place.

“Hey!” calls a customer. “How long a break do you need? I want to dance!”

I can’t help but grin. There’s just something so— _honest_ about people wanting to have fun. “You _so_ owe me for this,” I tell George through my smile.

“Get up there before I get a riot.”

The rest of the night goes by in a blur, and I stay to help clean up after the last of the patrons are gently shooed out the door in the wee hours of the morning. I help wipe tables, put the chairs up on them to make sweeping easier, and keep curious hands away from my guitar.

“I’m not complaining,” I tell Carrie as I fend off her three year-old’s sticky hands, “but why is she here and not at home with her father?”

“Music Valley!” demands the tiny girl.

“He’s got the flu,” Carrie says as she picks the girl up. “Let’s see if there are some treats in the kitchen,” she tells the child.

“Music!”

Suddenly the television roars to life drowning out everybody and making the toddler cry. “Today peace talks between the Global Alliance and the Tensha aliens broke down,” the newscaster replies. I turn to look at the screen as George turns the volume down to a more manageable level.

The Tensha. Six years ago a ship appeared in the Earth’s atmosphere, seeded plant life on the planet, and then began strategic attacks to take over the world. The only military weapon that wasn’t completely useless was the atomic bomb—but after the plants that grew at Chernobyl made the Tensha that took them stronger and faster than before, the idea of using a nuclear bomb was shelved. Then, when it looked like the Tensha were going to conquer the entire planet, the opponents appeared. The general public never knew why five high-school kids had the ability to fight back against the Tensha where even the newly formed Global Alliance had failed—and most hadn’t cared. The world called them Heroes, and it has been in a state of intermittent war ever since.

“I wonder what happened,” murmurs Carrie as she soothes the crying child. She stares at the screen with clear worry. Everyone had been hoping the peace talks would turn into, if not true peace, then at least a truce that would allow the scarred parts of the world to recover.

“Don’t know,” I say with a frown. Had Helen, the leader of the group, been unable to hold back her rage at the Tensha? Did Arnold lose his temper and attack one of the envoys? He’s always been a hot head. Or was it on the part of the aliens? Has the war gone on for too long, and is the hatred too deep for a truce now? It shouldn't be—but there are a lot of things that shouldn't be.

To calm the child I sling the guitar strap to where the instrument is over my chest and gently strum a lullaby. Slowly the toddler stops crying, hiccups, and falls deeply asleep in her mother’s arms. “Wow,” breathes Carrie softly, moving slowly so as not to disturb the child. “It’s just like magic!”

I laugh. “Magic is everywhere, if you look for it,” I tell her as I sling the guitar back around and pick up a broom.

“You’re a strange person Valley-Girl,” Tina tells me as Carrie moves back into the kitchen with her daughter.

I wink at her. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk to strangers?” I tease.

She blinks in surprise and then grins back. “Are you a stranger?” she asks as she grabs another broom.

I chuckle. “They don’t come much stranger than me,” I tell her.

Soon we’re finished cleaning up the place, and I remove my guitar long enough to don my jacket. The gloves, mischievous little things that they are, firmly stay in the pocket. I grab the guitar’s case (waterproof vinyl), make sure the picks I use are in the case’s pockets, and then get my payment for the night’s work from George.

“You’d be able to make more if you signed on as a regular,” he grunts at me as he hands me the wad of cash.

I wink as I put it in my free coat pocket. “What, and ruin the rare value of my performance here?”

He snorts. “What ‘rare value’?” he demands. “You play in the park.”

“The park has different acoustics,” I tell him as I walk to the door.

“You’re not _walking_ home are you? At this time of night?” he demands.

I pull the phone (cheap, pre-pay thing that it is) out of my pocket. “I’ve got my phone,” I tell him as I walk out before slipping the device back into my pocket. That’s the nice thing about this jacket—the pockets are nice and deep.

“Call if anything happens!” I wave in acknowledgment. George likes to play the gruff, unsociable old man, but he’s very protective of the people who work for him.

This is exactly the kind of night I like the most. The full moon is bathing the world in silver light, the primary notes of color being the blooming crepe myrtle that fill the park I cut through on the way back to my apartment. The pinks and purples of the petals are muted in the silver light, but still visible. The wind keeps the temperature perfect; not too hot, not too cold. The wind also makes the branches of the of the trees rub together, almost like the intro to a song I can’t quite hear. It’s a night where it feels like anything can happen.

I’m still shocked when a figure steps into the path in front of me. For a brief moment I’m in a different park, a different place, a different time. The sun is shining brightly over the botanical garden with its green trees and colorful flowers. The person in front of me has hair that matches the leaves on the trees, golden eyes, and delicately pointed ears. Even still, after the first appearance of the Tensha, people are arguing if they have a connection to the elves of mythology.

The Tensha in front of me grunts, bringing me back to the present, and begins to fall. I dart forward and catch him before he hits the ground. Half of his face is swollen to almost human proportions, and even in the moonlight I can see the bruises rising on his face. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth and I can’t tell if it’s because of a split lip or internal bleeding.

This isn’t just any Tensha—I know this one. “Dargaar?” I ask. He’s supposed to be one of the envoys—what is he doing _here_ ? If he’s in such bad shape, why didn’t he just transport himself back to his ship to be healed, like he has countless times in the past? More importantly—why is he _here_? In this small town? There’s nothing of interest here for either the Tensha or the government; it was one of the factors that made me decide to start settling here in the first place.

His good eye cracks open slightly. “Va—al?” he croaks.

“Hold on,” I tell him. I pull out my phone—and stop. I can’t call an ambulance—even if I reached one with nothing but good intentions, once he got to the hospital he’d be snatched up by some government drone for experimentation. That would be a cruel way for him to die, and he doesn’t deserve it. But what else can I do? The medical training I have is rudimentary at best, and it’s clear he needs medical help.

George. George was, if his stories are to be believed, a combat medic during the war. I call him (one of three numbers in my phone) and he picks up quickly. “George, I need a favor, NQA.” No Questions Asked.

“Is it legal?”

“Good question.” Is it legal? True, the world is trying to work out a peace with the Tensha, but would that extend to helping one that’s in such clearly bad shape? “Don’t know,” I add. I hang up and soon hear footsteps as George pounds up to help. That’s one of the nice things about a town like this; everything is close to everything else, almost within walking distance.

George takes a moment and stares at the person I’m holding. “You know Valley Girl,” he says thoughtfully, “one of these days we’re going to have to talk about who you really are.”

I roll my eyes. “You _know_ who I am,” I protest as he leans down to examine Dargaar.

“Clearly not all of it,” he mutters. Suddenly he grabs one of Dargaar’s arms and pops it back into socket, and Dargaar passes out. Probably for the best; if George finds out that we actually know each other he might have more questions. Correction: he’ll have a better idea of what questions to ask.

“Do you have any idea what happened?” I ask as he checks for broken bones. I don’t know what Tensha bones are made of, but they’re a lot harder to break than human ones. Although, there was one time I broke Dargaar’s collarbone.

“My guess is it has something to do with why the peace talks suddenly went south,” George says. He looks at me. “What are you going to do with him now?” he asks.

“I thought I’d take him to the apartment and see if he can heal the rest of his way on his own before trying to figure out how to get him to his ship.” I don’t know what healing techniques they have up there, but he once lost his entire lower half and a week later was back in fighting trim.

“The apartment? Your apartment?” George’s voice is carefully devoid of emotion.

“Can you think of another apartment I’d be referring to?” I ask.

“I just didn’t peg you for the type of person to let a strange man into your home,” George says. He shakes his head. “Well, you get the legs and let’s carry him there. How steep are those stairs again?”

“Steep enough,” I grunt as I gently grab the two legs.

The apartment is actually the garage apartment of Old Man (Mr.) Tucker and his wife, Mrs. Johnson. (Not sure why Mr. Tucker goes by his first name and his wife by their last, and I don’t really care.) The garage was, once upon a time, a barn, and the apartment is where the hayloft used to be. It’s furnished with a kitchen, bedroom (including a dresser), and a bathroom. More importantly, since it’s not connected to the main house, I can practice my music without worrying about waking anyone up, or disturbing the old folks. Not a bad deal, especially since I pay in labor and not money.

“Hold on,” I say as we reach the bottom of the stairs leading to the apartment. “There’s a slight problem here—how am I supposed to unlock the door?”

George stares at me for a moment. “You actually lock your door? _You_?” he asks incredulously. “The same girl who didn’t want a phone? Why?”

Because I’ve known many people who think nothing of invading my personal space. “Doesn’t matter,” I tell him.

He rolls his eyes. “Well, obviously, you’ll have to go first.”

“Won’t having his legs higher than his head be a problem?”

“That’s—” George pauses. “Not a bad thought. Let’s switch.” After a moment’s struggle we managed to switch positions and I led the way to the apartment, balanced Dargaar’s head and shoulders with one arm, and opened the door with the other. “You’re stronger than you look,” George says thoughtfully.

“I told you I was,” I remind him as we maneuver Dargaar to the bed. Looks like I’ll be sleeping on the floor for a while. Eh, it’s warm enough. We position Dargaar on the bed to where his head is slightly higher than his waist—only slightly, I took one of the pillows for myself.

“Maybe we should put him under the covers,” George says hesitantly.

I roll my eyes where he can’t see them. “Well, do you _want_ to pick him up again?” At the stunned look on George’s face I quickly add, “It’s warm enough at night, and I’ll keep the central unit on for a while. He’ll be fine.”

“He’ll be fine.”

I sigh. “Seriously,” I tell George, “they’ve fought in the desert under blazing sun and in the arctic winters without even putting on more clothes. He’s not going to catch a cold just because he happens to be on top of the blanket.”

“One of these days you’ll tell me all your secrets.”

I snort as I walk him back to the door. “Nobody knows _all_ my secrets George.” After he leaves I lock the door and look back at Dargaar. I know what signs to look for to determine internal bleeding on a human, but if I remember right Tensha blood is darker, more purple. So, instead of looking for color, I should be looking for texture. I pull up the shirt and check the abdomen for both incredibly hard spots and incredibly squishy spots, as both of those can be indicators of internal damage. Lots of bruising; looks like someone really beat him—but it doesn’t seem like there’s any internal bleeding. Of course, I might not be looking for the right thing.

I pull his shirt back down and examine him as closely as I can without touching him. One of his ears, both of which come to points on either side of his head, looks severely bruised; no normal flesh color to be seen on it. Similarly, half his face (which _should_ have a nice triangular shape) is so swollen that half of it looks human. He’s still wearing the same uniform he wore in every single battle the two of us every had (I’m not sure he _has_ other clothes), and the dark blue double-buttoned top (made of some bizarrely stretchy material that no one has been able to duplicate, and there have been people trying) is covered in scratches, small cuts, and scuffs. His pants (made of the same material and almost skin tight) haven’t fared much better.

I sigh. “What happened to you Dargaar?” I ask softly. More importantly; why is he here? This is a small town that can be crossed in the time it takes to sneeze if someone's traveling by car with absolutely nothing of strategic military value; the only thing keeping this town alive are the farms on the outside of it. It’s the reason why, when I got tired of traveling with the group, I decided to settle down _here_ . There’s nothing here but families who almost all work in the next town over. Now, _that_ town, considering it’s a factory town, might be a legitimate target (if the person targeting it squints really hard), but not _this_ one. So—why is he _here_? It doesn’t make sense.


	3. 2

Oh, well, time to earn my lodgings anyway.  My lodging fee depends on getting the house Mr. Tucker and Mrs. Johnson live in ready for the day, a bit of light cleaning (they have a real maid who does the deep cleaning), and making sure they’re both up by the time kids and grand kids arrive for the day. I also prepare lunch for everybody. Then, the rest of the day is my own.  I detune the guitar, set it on the stool by the door, change into something slightly more appropriate for cleaning and cooking, and head over to the main house to get to work.

M rs. Johnson is already up when I get the to kitchen. “Good morning,” I tell her cheerfully as I start pulling out what I need to make today’s breakfast. “How are you this morning?”

“Valley, who were those two men in your apartment?” asks Mrs. Johnson with a frown etching her face. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “One of the men, George, is the guy who keeps begging me to sign on has his bar’s Friday night entertainment. The other got into a fight and didn’t want to go to the hospital. I’m keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t _need_ to go the hospital.”

“And if he needs to go?”

“Well, unconscious is implied consent, and I can easily knock him out,” I say as I get the bacon cooking in the frying pan. Mr. Tucker has an entire kitchen set of cured cast iron implements—but I’m more comfortable with non-stick.

Mrs. Johnson laughs. “Well said!” she applauds me with a sharp rap of her cane against the floor. “ Men do not always think to look after themselves and it is a woman’s job to make sure they do!”

“Yes, Ma’am!” I agree with a grin as pull down a plate for the finished bacon slices. “Would you like me to wake Mr. Tucker now?”

She frowns. “No,” she says after a moment. “Let him sleep a little bit longer. He had trouble going down last night.”

I wince as I flip the bacon slices. “His knees bothering him again?”

She shakes her head. “All those years spent working the land,” she mourns. “They were bound to take a toll.”

Actually, the way I heard it, Mr. Tucker would go out to the land, put in a few token hours, and then hail off to do some vigilante work against the factory owner in the next town who was determined to work his people to death. Probably best I don’t mention that, whether or not it’s true. Both were probably very hard on the knees, if the stories I’ve heard about him jumping out of windows are even  _half_ true. “Living takes a toll,” I say lightly.

Mrs. Johnson chuckles. “That’s true. Well,” she says levering herself up with her cane, “time to wake him for food. It’s not good to skip breakfast; not with the medicines we take.”

“I’ll put it in the dining room when I’m done,” I tell her cheerfully. I finish the meal, set it out, clean up, make lunch, get that in the fridge, and then head back to the apartment. Dargaar is still sleeping. I pull the lone kitchen chair next to him, grab my guitar, and begin to carefully tune it. After tuning it I let my fingers wander the wires.

“What...are you...doing?” a voice asks.

I glance up to see that Dargaar has both bright green eyes staring at me. They look oddly glassy, but I don’t know if that’s an indicator of trouble. “I’m trying to re-create a song I almost heard,” I tell him. I set the guitar aside and shake my head. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.” I go to my fridge, pull out a bottle of mixed juices, pour it into a glass, and then take it back to him. He sips slowly, staining his upper lip blue. “Thank you,” he says, sounding much stronger. He looks at me. “It really _is_ you Valkyrie.”

“It really is,” I confirm as I take the glass back to the kitchen and rinse it out before putting it with the dirty dishes. “Although I go by ‘Valley’ around here,” I add as I take a seat and pick up the guitar again. “How are you feeling?” I ask again.

“Like I really miss sparring with _you_.” Dargaar tries to sit up, grunts, and falls back to the bed. His already pale complexion fades three shades from the effort.

My thumb slips and sounds a discordant note. I set the guitar down again. “What happened?” I ask.

“We were—talking about a truce. Connac, Ayre, Raiban, Elnoril and I were on one side of the table. Troy, Sky, Night, Moon, and Eagle were on the other side, with a man in a suit.”

I mentally translate the names. Troy is Helen,  and she is petite, blonde (usually with blue streaks),  uses arrows as her primary weapons and means of communication, and is addicted to brownies. Sky is Celine;  she’s average height, but thinner than most .  She has trouble forcing herself to eat after using her healing abilities .  Moon is Luna, tall for her age and whipcord for muscles. She can go through buildings like a tank and hurl tanks like a child can hurl a small toy. Eagle is Arnold,  shorter than Luna but taller than the rest, Arnold can use fire. I’ve never been entirely certain if he  _creates_ fire, or if he just  _uses_ fire.  For all I know, he might be able to do both. Night must be Layla, the new one. I don’t know as much about her.  The man in the suit must be Jason Richton, the lawyer that Helen’s dad employs to make sure there are no lingering legal issues about the—exploits.

Dargaar looks up at the ceiling, which is a depressing study in just how boring white ceiling tile can be. “I don’t think it was going badly. Both sides want to stop this war.” He takes a deep breath and winces from the pain.

“Both sides?” I ask with a frown. Did a third party burst in and attack? Humans are divided into an insane number of factions, but I’m not sure that’s a distinction the Tensha can understand. Then again, the only Tensha _I’ve_ ever met are Dargaar and his four buddies. For all I know they’re just as fragmented as humans and just as unable to have a single opinion on any given topic.

“Yes. Then—when the man in the suit was talking about a tra—a tru—?” Dargaar frowns at the human word he doesn’t know.

One day I’m going to have to learn how the Tensha learned to speak English.  For the most part they do fine, but there are some odd gaps in their vocabulary. “Truce?” I ask.

“Yes. Truce.”

Or, given that we’ve practically been at war with each other for over six years, maybe the gaps aren’t  _that_ surprising. “So you were talking about a truce,” I prompt gently.

“Night went insane. She started yelling that we were all plotting against her; that we wanted to kill her. That the meeting was nothing more than a cover for us to kill her. Then she wrenched the table leg off and attacked me with it.”

I stare at him. “She what?” I ask.

He grimaces again. “I first thought the demand to enter the room unarmed stupid. I am now glad we were all unarmed. If she’d had her sword I’d be dead.”

“And they—they just _let_ her?” I don’t what appalls me more: the fact that she clearly had a paranoid break (which may or may not have been justified; if the others wanted her out of the group or “to get rid of her” she might easily have confused that with “have her killed”) or that she _attacked_ without clear provocation. Each and every single time the Heroes (as the world calls the group) fought the Tensha, the Tensha acted _first_.

Or at least, we were  _told_ the Tensha acted first.

“No,” Dargaar says breaking into my thoughts. “They held her back. If they hadn’t, I wouldn't have gotten as far as I did.” He breathes shallowly for a moment. “Which wasn’t very far at all,” he adds.

Wasn’t very far at all? Does that mean the entire meeting took place in this town? That’s—disturbing.

I notice that Dargaar appears to be nodding off. “Go ahead and sleep,” I tell him. “You’re safe here, and you need rest to heal.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his thin lips. “So says...the Vicious...Valkyrie.” He dozes off and I check his pulse. Rapid but steady which means—I have no idea what it means. I know absolutely nothing about Tensha anatomy, for all I know he’s on the verge of death.

I put my guitar on its stand, grab my jacket and put on my gloves, and go for a walk. I think better when I’m moving, but I don’t want to disturb Dargaar’s rest.  Normally this time of day I’m in the park playing the guitar—but I feel too active for that right now.

So, Dargaar didn’t leave very far—but all the Tensha (at least all the ones I’ve met) have a strange ability that lets them transport themselves from place to place. I think that ability even takes them to the ship and back to Earth, so it’s possible that Dargaar transported himself farther than he thinks he did. Then again—he  _is_ injured pretty badly; he simply might not have had the strength to go far. So—how far is far? Actually the question is—how likely is it that  the rest of them are here?

I pass by the bank to the new building that’s currently under construction—and see a familiar figure in a pink outfit that looks similar to a jumpsuit with a white stripe down the side. The thick, curly blond hair as vibrant purple streaks that are visible from a distance and if that’s not enough for confirmation the white streak shimmers occasionally as it tries to blend in to the world behind it.

Clearly it’s very likely that they’re here—but why is Helen going into a building under construction? I know it’s Saturday, and no one’s working today, but what could possibly be the appeal of a building just far enough along in its construction that it has outside walls? More importantly—why isn’t she wearing a helmet? They have a whole table set up with the things next to the entrance, and I snag one as I follow her inside.  The hardhat is just a little too big on my, and shades my eyes more than it’s supposed to. Not enough to make me go back for a smaller hat, but enough that I notice.

The instant I step inside I freeze. I can feel a tense, angry presence coiled through the building. No. It’s not just a building anymore. This is now a battlefield. I pass by a bin with metal pipes in it, and I snag one and swing it experimentally. Not bad. Not as good of a weapon as the sword I used to have, but it’ll do. I’m glad I left the guitar back at the apartment; now I don’t need to worry about the thing breaking and can go all out—if I have to.

Just what  _is_ Helen doing here? It doesn’t make sense! What kind of a hare-brained, simple-minded  _idiot_ would think that going into a building under construction with  _no_ witnesses in it is a good idea? Anything could happen to her in here!

A chill runs down my spine at that realization.  _Anything_ can happen to her in here, in a building filled with some kind of malignant energy. This, as people would say, is a trap. But wait—if this is a trap, what’s the bait?

“How could you just attack him like that?” The pained voice sounds, crystal clear, through the building. I cautiously follow it. It’s possible that the trap is for Helen—but it’s also possible that the trap is for me. It’s too soon to tell.

“ ‘How could you?’ ” sneers a voice. I pause. I know every voice I’ve ever heard in person—and this isn’t one of them. And yet, somehow, despite not being a voice I’ve ever heard before, it sounds—familiar. Disturbingly so. “Our enemy was right there, ripe for the plucking, and you—all of you—were trying to play ‘nice’ and ‘see what they want’. You disgust me!”

“This war is killing us!” Helen protests. “We need to end it!”

News to me that the war with the Tensha is killing us; I thought it was invigorating the economies of various countries—then again, it’s not like I’ve really been paying attention the last three years. Perhaps I should do some research on more than music chords and bar room acoustics.

“We need to destroy them.” There’s a quiet insanity in the voice that propels me forwards. Helen isn’t negotiating—she’s being maneuvered into a trap. I can tell that the owner of the voice hates her, for some reason, and wants to kill her.

I stare, with a little bit of disbelief, at a staircase I reach. They’re  _upstairs_ ? How did Helen get so far ahead of me? Slowly, cautiously, I make my way up, keeping the pipe at the ready. The gloves, realizing they’re about to go into battle once again, start vibrating against my hands.

“For years they’ve been parasites, battening onto Earth and fattening up as they try to make us weaker and weaker.” I reach the top of the flight of stairs and peer around the corner to see that Helen is facing off—against someone in a suit identical to hers except that it’s black and white, instead of pink. The young woman’s slick hair hangs straight against her head and dangles lightly over her shoulders as her face is half obscured by the visor.

This isn’t good; those visors give their wearers an edge by segmenting the world and making it easier to handle. They can calculate trajectory and predict movement—and Helen isn’t wearing hers! As the young woman circles Helen I can clearly see that Helen is also unarmed. Well,  _Helen_ may be unarmed, but her opponent is wielding a sword!

“It is time,” says the insane young woman calmly, “for you to die.”

Helen takes a step back and her foo t falls through the floor. “ Ow!” she gasps as she falls. It looks like the floor has eaten her leg to the knee.

“If you tell me,” the insane young woman says as she readies her sword, “where he is I will kill you quickly.”

“Where who is?” demands Helen as she tries to get out of the hole.

“Do not play dumb with me,” says the insane woman coldly. She stabs Helen in the shoulder with the sword and Helen screams.

I don’t think; my body moves like I’ve never left the battlefield. I gather the energy surrounding me and use it to coat the pipe, for extra strength, run forwards as she withdraws the sword,  and meet it with the pipe as it swings down again. The energy coating the pipe sparks off the energy coating the sword. “What the Hell,” I demand as I push her back, “do you think you’re doing?” I carefully place myself between her and Helen.

“Valerie?” asks Helen.

“She stole my prey,” says the insane woman coldly. Her energy presses against me, trying to push me out of the way—but I have the same abilities. Moreover, I have more control. I don’t move and her eyes widen.

“Helen!” I say as I get into stance. “Try to get out of that hole!”

“I thought I’d enjoy the view!” she snarls at me.

Good—her sarcasm is still working. She must not be as badly injured as I thought. Gratefully I transfer most of my attention to my opponent.

“Valerie the Valkyrie,” muses the insane woman. Suddenly she grins. “I must say, you’re stronger than I thought. I’d always believed you left because your powers left you.”

“Layla! Think about what you’re doing,” begs Helen.

Layla. The new one. The one they brought in to replace me when I left. The insane one who attacked Dargaar with no warning. “So,” I ask as we circle each other. I keep between her and Helen. “What mental hospital did they dig  _you_ from?”

“I am not crazy!” snarls Layla. She gathers her energy around the sword and attacks.

Despite the fact that she has a sword, despite the fact that all I have is a pipe, I have the advantage. She’s spread herself too thin; she can’t get enough energy into her weapon to make a dent in the pipe, never mind to cut me. Then again—the sword she’s using is crap. I can see shavings where it’s moving inside the wooden handle because it wasn’t fixed in place properly. There are notches in the blade—in places where I haven’t hit it with the pipe, and the very metal is beginning to crack. After a few more whacks the blade itself snaps.

Layla steps back and looks at the point of her blade, which has buried itself in the floor. “That was unexpected,” she says calmly. She meets my eyes and I’m slightly shocked to see that hers are so dark it’s difficult to tell  where her pupils end and the iris begins. “I guess you both live another day.” She takes a step back—and fades out.

She teleported! She teleported just like the Tensha teleport! Why can’t  _I_ do that?”

“Valerie!” cries Helen. I turn to see that not only is she still stuck, but the sparks have started fires. Every time she puts weight on the wounded shoulder she collapses and undoes what little progress she’s made getting out of the hole.

I run over to help, shelving the shock of seeing a human teleport like a Tensha. I can’t pull Helen up without putting pressure on the wound. “This is going to hurt,” I tell her.

She grits her teeth. “Just do it!” she hisses.

I quickly put a hand in each armpit, brace myself, and pull her up. She bites back a shriek as the fire spreads. I look around, but there are no fire extinguishers. I pull her uninjured arm over my shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here,” I say as we make our way to the stairs. She grimaces and grunts every time weight gets put on her leg. A glance down shows me that it’s injured.

“Walking...takes...too long!” she complains.

“Save your breath,” I order. I’m surprised to see that I’m in better shape than she is. I hear sirens and realize that, with one of the injured Heroes of Earth over my shoulder, I’m going to make headlines whether I want to or not. The hardhat slips forward and I realize I can use it to mask my face. Well, my silhouette will still be perfectly clear, but only the people nearest me will recognize it. I’ve changed a lot in the last three years.

I deliver an injured Helen to the paramedics, stunned at their famous patient, and quietly remove myself from the scene. I know what hospital they’ll take her to—there’s only one in the county—and I need to get a couple things first. At least Helen and the group being in town will help me with another problem I’m having.


	4. 3

I go back to the apartment, get the guitar, and then visit Brandy. Fortunately for me Brandy is two things—a small business owner with a tendency towards baking and a car owner who freely lends her car to strange people. I’m probably one of the few people who don’t tell Brandy what an idiot she is for loaning her car out to strange people, but I’m one of the strange people that she loans her car to.

The business has glass-front windows. It sells both furniture and food, so it’s entirely possible to try the new dining room set before actually buying it. They have great parties; I know, because I’ve played for them. “Hello!” I call as I walk in.

Brandy is working at the food counter and she grins at me. “Valley!” she says cheerfully. The short, plump woman quickly wraps up a customer’s order and hands it to the man before leaning over the counter as I approach it. “What brings you here today?”

“Two things,” I tell her as I walk up to the counter. Luckily there isn’t a line, so I can do that without annoying anyone. Good relationships are important since I sing for my supper. “One, do you mind if I borrow your car for a couple hours? I’ll have it back by the end of the business day,” I add hastily.

“Of course not!” says Brandy cheerfully. She reaches into a pocket and hands me a set of keys. “What else?”

I point to the bakery case. “Do you have fresh brownies, by any chance?” I get the baked goods, get the car, and drive to the hospital. I actually had my license before my three year road trip, and there were enough chances to drive that I never forgot my skills. I’m still not completely comfortable driving though, and I sigh with relief when I pull into a parking spot without hitting anyone or anything.

As I get out of the car one of the ducks that lives in the hospital pond jumps onto the hood and quacks at me. “What, are you cold?” I ask. The duck quacks again and begins preening itself. I shake my head and go into the hospital.

Despite only living here for six months I’m familiar enough with the layout of the place that I don’t need to ask for directions to figure out what floor Helen is on. Of course, once I reach the floor all I have to do is find the door being guarded by men in suits with obvious earpieces in their ears. The guards, if I remember the hiring strategy right, are former secret service.

They’re also, I realize as I get closer to them, new enough not to remember who I am. Now, I _could_ introduce myself, but why? I stop in front of the cracked hospital door and open the bakery bag I’m holding.

“Excuse me,” guard on the left says. “You have to move on.”

I ignore him and fan the fumes from the bag towards the room. I can hear rustling in the room and can’t help but smile. It won’t be long now.

“Did you hear me?” demands guard on the left. He opens his mouth to say something more as the door to the hospital room slams open and Helen jumps out wearing a hospital gown and trailing wires.

“Brownies!” she gasps as she grabs the bakery bag from my hand.

“Thank you for the brownies Valerie,” I prompt. She reaches into the bag, grabs one of the half-dozen I bought, and shoves into her mouth.

“Ah oo,” she mumbles around the chocolaty treat. She forces herself to swallow and then grins at me. “It’s so good to see you again!” She flings both arms around me and I catch the bag before it hits the hospital floor.

“What’s going on?” asks a voice. A young woman with dark brown hair, prominent cheekbones, an angular chin and a long neck timidly peers out. She stares at me and her mouth drops open.

“Been a while Celine. I’m not going to disappear,” I tell Helen, who’s still clutching me. “You can let go now.”

“I haven’t seen you in three years!”

“You saw me an hour ago.” I take a step towards the room and Helen moves with me. “Come on,” I gently urge as we make our way into the room. Like most single hospital rooms it starts off with a short hallway that opens into a larger room. The room has two chairs next to a table, a recliner next to the hospital bed, and a hospital bed surrounded by machines. The machines by the bed are beeping reproachfully and I can see where the wires that are trailing from Helen came from. I’m not sure why they’re needed; from the way Helen is moving Celine has already healed the damage. Another reason I grabbed brownies. And also—I reach into the guitar case and pull out another bag, this one with a sandwich in it that I hand to Celine. “I didn’t forget you either,” I tell her.

Celine timidly takes the white paper bag from me and gestures me towards chairs. “I don’t understand Valerie, where have you been?” she asks.

I gently disentangle Helen and hand her the bag of brownies so she can eat them. “Well, when we parted ways I went off with a group of traveling musicians, and about six months ago broke away to settle down—ish. I don’t feel settled in,” I confess. It’s one of the reasons I don’t call the apartment “home;” it doesn’t feel like one. Still; I got tired of traveling.

Celine takes one of the chairs next to the table as I take the other and put the guitar between my feet. “I see.” She stares at the bag vacantly.

“That sandwich doesn’t do you any good _inside_ the bag,” I tell her.

She takes it out and opens the wrapper to stare at the sandwich. “Teriyaki and kale,” she says.

“You said it’s your favorite. And you’re lucky,” I add. “Just a few months ago no one in town sold it.” I guess the businesses knew that they were coming to town long before they actually did. I didn’t know—but I’ve made it a point not to know what they’ve been up to for the last three years.

“So, did you learn anything from the musicians?” asks Helen. I look at her and see that she’s licking brownie crumbs off her fingers.

I learned a _lot_ from the musicians. I grin at her. “Well, I learned to play the guitar,” I tell her.

“ _You_? No way.” Helen calmly reattaches the wires to silence the machines. “Prove it,” she challenges.

I open the case, tune the guitar, and gently strum a lullaby. Applause startles me at the end of the small performance and I look up to see a young woman with stunning black hair and a tanned young man with strawberry blond hair clapping. “Luna, Arnold,” I identify. “I didn’t expect to see you two today.”

“We had to come make sure Helen’s okay,” Luna says, as though that explains everything.

It actually might. Helen’s always been the cornerstone of the group; without her there we probably would have drifted apart long before we had the chance to become friends. Arnold sighs and looks at me. “Where have you been?” he demands.

I look back at my guitar and begin to detune it. “Everywhere and nowhere.”

“What happened to you, Helen?” asks Luna.

“Layla attacked me.” The announcement is met with stunned silence and a couple of gasps and I take the moment to put my guitar back in its case.

“So,” I drawl, “where’d you find _that_ charming little psychopath?”

Arnold rounds on me. “Don’t you dare,” he warns me. “You disappeared for _three_ years, so don’t you dare sit there and act like you’re better than her!”

I calmly meet his gaze, brown eyes meeting blue. “At least _I_ ,” I tell him firmly, “never attacked my allies.”

“Valerie,” asks Helen sounding unusually timid, “why _did_ you leave?”

“I was broken,” I tell her calmly. Suddenly I chuckle. “Still am, a little, but I’m getting better.” I start to leave the room.

“Valerie, wait!” cries out Celine. She rushes to me and asks, “Can’t we talk a bit longer?”

“If you walk me to the car. I borrowed it and have to get it back before six.” Celine falls into step beside me and I sigh. “Did you even _eat_ the sandwich?” I ask. One of the side effects of her abilities is that she gets nauseous afterwards. Back when we were a group we took turns practically forcing food down her throat so she wouldn't starve.

“I’ll eat it when I get back,” she tells me as we head down the hall. “Please, tell me what happened with Helen.”

“The psychopath—”

“Layla.”

I let the correction stand. “She laid a trap for Helen.”

“A trap?”

I nod. “I don’t know how she got Helen into a building under construction,” although, knowing Helen, it could have been as simple as daring her to go, “but the entire place was filled with her energy. She even used some of it to collapse part of the building under Helen’s leg.”

“You could sense it? Were you wearing your gloves?”

I look at her as we enter the elevator. She’s serious. Exactly what did that guy trick them into believing after I left? More importantly—why bother tricking them at all? “Celine,” I tell her, “you know that the gloves only awaken and amplify the power. It doesn’t matter if I was wearing them or not.” I sigh. I can think of a number of times I would’ve liked to turn the powers off just by removing the gloves. “Although,” I admit, “it’s a good thing I was. When—Layla attacked, I was able to defend with nothing more than a metal pipe.”

“That shouldn't have been possible,” Celine admits as the elevator doors open and we head towards the car I’m driving.

“No, it shouldn't have been. And if she’d been wielding anything other than some piece of crap display art in the shape of a sword, it wouldn't have been. Oh, man,” I say as we reach the car and I unlock, “I am glad that you guys didn’t give that psychopath my sword.” I unlock the car, open the door, and stop as I realize that Celine could be the answer to another problem I’m having. “Is there any way you could come with me?” I ask. She blinks in surprise. “I have a,” I pause as I realize that our conversation, now stationary, is probably being recorded, “a guest who needs help,” I finish with deliberate vagueness.

“I see.” Her eyes flicker, for a brief moment, towards the hospital. Then she pulls her phone (a lot smarter and newer than mine) out of her purse. “Just a moment,” she says as she makes a call.


	5. 4

I forgot how annoying I found the practice of talking on the phone to another person while in the presence of someone else entirely. Does the convenience of a cell phone really outweigh this discomfort?

“Yes,” Celine says as she hangs up the phone. “Arnold will come pick me up.”

“Yay Arnold,” I say as I gently put the guitar in the back seat. I understand what his problem with me is, I really do—but he doesn’t have all the information about back then. Of course, it’s not like I was _giving_ information back then.

Celine gets into the passenger’s seat and buckles. “You borrowed a car?” she asks.

“Well, I don’t have one of my own and it’s a little far to walk,” I reply as I carefully pull out of the spot—and stop for a small march of ducks to go by.

“There are a lot of ducks here,” comments Celina.

“I think they’re supposed to be therapy for the patients’ families.”

“Maybe. I’m surprised they’re not afraid of getting run over.”

“There’s a mandatory three thousand dollar fine for running over these ducks,” I tell her, “so people are more afraid of the ducks than the ducks are of cars.” The ducks in question move on and I creep out of the parking lot and get on the main road.

“That—seems a little extreme,” admits Celine.

I snort. “There are a lot of stupidly extreme city ordinances and state laws here,” I tell her. One of the (many) reasons I’m extremely (no pun intended) careful when driving.

“I see.” Celine pauses and looks out the window. The county is a pretty one; there are trees lining almost all the roads (another ordinance; when one tree falls another is quickly planted in its place), flowers are planted in front of most public buildings and businesses, and the roads and sidewalks are kept scrupulously clear of litter (and the most common community service sentence is to pick up garbage along the roads and sidewalks). After a few minutes she asks, “Did anything interesting happen? While you were gone, I mean.”

I guess Celine is one of those people who can’t ride quietly in a car and must have conversation going. I grin. “A lot of interesting things happened,” I tell her. I launch into some anecdotes about my like on the road, like not realizing that blisters sting when in contact with salt water (we were playing on a beach), and carefully screen out the frightening bits (like when that paranoid religious group decided we were trying to seduce their children with evil music and tried to kill us all).

By the time we make it to Brandy’s store Celine has actually broken down enough to laugh three times. We get out and she looks around. “Do you live close by?” she asks.

“Close enough,” I tell her as I go into the store. Unlike the first time it’s packed both with people buying furniture and dinner. “Brandy!” I call as I stride up to the counter. I hold out the keys for her as she reaches over. “Thanks for the loan!” I say cheerfully as I drop the keys into her hand.

“Anytime for you, Valley-Girl,” Brandy says with a grin. “How were the brownies?”

“Perfect, as always.”

“You still randomly loaning your car out Brandy?” asks a concerned elderly gentleman. “That’s not good; you should be more careful.”

I wave as Celine and I leave. “How do you know the brownies were good?” she asks with curiosity. “You didn’t get to eat any.”

“Brandy always makes good brownies,” I reply. “Besides,” I add as we get back on the sidewalk, “if they weren’t good, Helen would have spit them out.”

“That’s—”

“Valley!” I turn to see a woman walking towards us. She ignores Celine. “Valley, my daughter says she wants you to play for her party tomorrow. Can I hire you for it?”

I remember her daughter. The last time I played at a party that little terror attended she dumped ice cream in my guitar. “You realize,” I say firmly, “that I’ll have to charge an extra fee for cleaning and repair?”

Her face freezes for a moment. “What do you mean by that?” she asks.

“I mean if a child at the party gets curious to see if the guitar needs to eat, you pay however much it costs for me to get cleaned and repaired.”

“Alright, but I need the bill.”

I think about it for a moment. “What if I just have the guy send the bill to you?” I ask. “Then you know exactly how much it is and what it’s for.”

“Deal,” says the woman with a smile before she walks off.

“Is it a birthday party?” asks Celine as we continue on towards the apartment.

“Who knows?” I ask with a shrug. “That kid has a party every other week.”

“Hey, Valley!” says a boy on roller blades as he circles the two of us on the sidewalk. “Did you hear about the airplane?”

I grin at him. “It’s way, way over your head,” I tell the kid. He shakes his head in disappointment at me and I call out to his retreating back, “And don’t get caught roller blading without a helmet!”

“You seem to have settled in nicely,” Celine comments as start off again.

“It’s temporary,” I tell her as I lead her through the park. “Everyone knows I might leave any day now.”

“Hey Valley!” calls a young woman playing with a band near the fountain. “You going to play with us today?”

I give a saucy wave and call back, “Too much to do. Maybe later.”

“Definitely later!”

I laugh and we finish crossing the park. “We’re almost there,” I tell Celine.

“Valley-Girl!” I turn to see George approaching us.

“Hey George,” I greet him.

He crosses his arms and sighs as he looks at me. “Well, I have another band lined up for Friday night. Hopefully,” he snarls, “this one will actually stick around long enough to _do_ the job. Will you be backup in case they don’t show?”

“Too early,” I tell him. “You know how I am; I can leave at any time. If I’m still here, ask me Thursday.” He rolls his eyes and walks off and we continue. When we get to the house we see Mr. Tucker’s daughter and she shoots me a glare. She thinks I’m here to steal, but as long as the court says he’s in his right mind she can’t throw me out.

“Should you be concerned about that?” Celine asks as she warily watches the woman.

“I doubt I’ll be here long enough for it to matter,” I tell her casually as I unlock the apartment door and we go in.

Celine steps into the apartment as I turn on the light—and freezes in place. She stares, open-mouthed, at the bed where Dargaar is. “Is that—” she starts. He turns his head to look at her. “Are you—?”

“Do you need to pee?” I ask. He hasn’t moved an inch—I don’t know if he _can_ move. I can’t really tell how badly he’s hurt.

He grimaces. “I can’t get up.”

“Hang on.” I turn to Celine, still gawking, and snap to get her attention, like I used to have to do when she hyper focused on something. She turns to me and I ask, “Can you tell if I’m going to make him worse by moving him? He’s been there all day.”

“Here?” she asks staring blankly at me.

“Yes.”

“All day?”

“Actually,” I admit, “since about three or four this morning.”

She sighs loudly and then strides over to the bed where she does something strange—she pulls her gloves (same kind I’ve got) out of her pocket, puts them on, and then I can sense energy emanating from her as she uses her ability to scan him for injuries. Why would she need the gloves? I’ve seen her do this exact same thing without them, that time we thought Helen was overworking herself. What’s going on? Why, four years later, would she suddenly need the gloves for something as mundane as this?

She opens her eyes and sighs, this time with relief. “It’s a good thing I’m here,” she says. “You desperately need healed if you’re going to be able to teleport to your ship.” She turns to me. “But, taking him to the bathroom isn’t going to kill him.”

“All right,” I say as I set the guitar down on its stand before heading to the bed. I grab one of Dargaar’s arms and expertly hoist him over my shoulder.

“Valkyrie, what are you doing?” he asks.

“What, you think you’re the first guy I’ve had to help pee? Not even,” I add as I take him to the toilet. To his embarrassment (although, really, it’s a biological function that everyone needs to do), I help him do his business before getting him cleaned, dressed again, and taking him back to the bed.

“You didn’t used to know how to do that,” comments Celine as I lay Dargaar back in the center.

“It’s been an educational three years,” I tell her as I step back for her to work. Last time I saw her, _this_ was the point she’d put the gloves on. Suddenly I remember her earlier comment about my gloves. Has someone been convincing them that they need the gloves to access _any_ of their power? Why?

Similar to her scanning procedure, waves of her energy rolled over Dargaar. I’ve seen her heal amazing injuries of people who should have died—but this looks like half of her ability. Yes, the bruising and swelling are going down at an abnormally fast rate—but it’s taking twice as long as it should to heal him. What’s going on here?

Maybe it’s because he’s Tensha. It may be true that I’ve seen her heal _humans_ with much faster speed, but Dargaar’s not human. Maybe she’s going slowly to make sure she’s doing it right. Maybe.

Celine finishes her healing—and her knees start to buckle. I slide the chair under her before she falls flat. “Let me get you something to drink,” I say to the both of them.

“Not—”

“Not caffeine, alcohol, or anything with high fructose corn syrup,” I reassure her. “Remember,” I tell her as I go into my fridge and pull out three bottles of juice, “I have these powers too.” One of the side effects of the activated power is that everything; stimulants, depressants, and medicines; have exaggerated effects on us. I hand one bottle to Celine and another to Dargaar, who’s sitting up.

“I don’t know how Helen can eat brownies,” mutters Celine as she opens the juice. Then she looks at me. “High fructose corn syrup?” she asks.

“Had me bouncing off the walls for days, remember?” I remind her. I sigh. “Took me forever to figure out why. And Helen built up a resistance, remember? She spent months eating brownies a little at a time until she could pig out again like she used to.” I open my bottle and take a gulp, letting the cold liquid slide down my throat.

“This is good juice,” Celine comments.

I grin. “My favorite kind,” I tell her. I look at Dargaar. “Doing better?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says. He sounds slightly insulted. He sighs and deflates before turning to Celine. “I must thank you and your friends,” he says seriously. “Because you held her back, I got away with light injuries.”

“You had internal bleeding,” Celine states flatly.

“But he didn’t die immediately,” I point out. “For our powers, that’s pretty light.” Internal bleeding, huh? Good thing I was able to run into Celine so we could get that fixed up. I lean against the wall and forcibly prevent myself from thinking of all the things that could have gone wrong. The point is—they didn’t.

Celine nervously twists her juice bottle in her hand. “She never should have attacked him,” she frets. “We never—we never saw it coming.”

I look at her pale face and realize that she’s shaken more by the attack than by the fact I asked her to treat Dargaar’s injuries. “I’ve asked this before, but where did you find her?”

She glances at me and then looks away, as though meeting my gaze was painful. “We—after you—left Lionel, Mr. Richards, he said we needed another person.”

Mr. Lionel Richards; Helen’s father. I’m not going to lie; I have my own problems with him. I have even more problems with the rest of them calling him by his first name. “Makes sense,” I admit. “We worked well as a team, and I can see why someone would assume they’d be able to fix all the discordant problems my departure caused by simply adding someone new. Why did you all go along with it?”

She grabs a lock of hair and begins to twist it around one of her fingers as she stares vacantly ahead of her. “I—we thought it was a good idea. We were all confused and no one knew why you left—why did you leave?”

I can hear the plaintive echo in her voice and it’s my turn to look away. “I couldn't help it Celine,” I tell her. “I was broken, and I needed to heal.” I look at her again. “So, where did you find the charming little psychopath?” I drawl.

“Mr. Richards scouted her at an _Iado_ tournament.”

“ _Iado_?”

“It’s a Japanese sword fighting technique.” Celine begins.

“No, it’s a Japanese sword _drawing_ technique,” I correct firmly. And that’s not what she was using when we fought at the construction site. Of course it wasn’t, but there was more. I peer closely at her. “Hold on—didn’t you do any research on it?” I ask. When the group first got together Celine insanely researched what we were able to do; likes, dislikes, and aptitudes in order to figure out what weapon would suit us the best.

“Well, no,” admits Celine. “Li—Mr. Richards just came to us and said, ‘this is your new swordswoman,’ and we never questioned it.”

“ _Arnold_ never questioned it?” I demand. Arnold questions everything; not maliciously, but for information. Personal information; he doesn’t share what he knows unless he feels there’s a good reason to. His insatiable curiosity is part of what got him in the group in the first place—and he’s not wrong. Through his insights, we were able to destroy several machines that the Tensha were going to use to continue terraforming our planet. (I use the term “destroy” instead of “stop” because the machines never appeared again. I don’t think they can make more.)

Celine gets enough life back in her to roll her eyes. “And where were we supposed to look? The community theater?” she spits at me.

“I couldn't have been the _only_ stunt-person-in-training,” I tell her. “And even if I _was_ , they would have had to replace me.” I shrug. “It makes more sense to scout out the theater crowd than to scout out a martial art that is the closest thing to sword assassin training that the modern world has—especially since they want to keep civilian casualties to a minimum.” I take a deep breath, let it out, and then finish downing my juice. Looking up I notice that Dargaar and Celine have also finished _their_ juices and I collect the bottles to rinse them before throwing them in the plastics recycle bin.

“You may—you may be right.”

That’s another thing that’s bothering me; Celine didn’t used to stutter. She also used to have a bigger ego than she does now. I can still clearly remember her yelling at a wounded soldier that he should be grateful she was there to help. She was right, of course, but could have worded it better. _This_ Celine is almost a pale imitation. Could she somehow _be_ another Celine? No, because she remembers me, and our time together as a group. So—what happened? “More juice?” I ask to hide my thoughts from them.

“Yes, please,” says Dargaar.

“Oh, no thank you,” says Celine.

I grab another bottle of juice for him and walk back into the room and hand it to Dargaar before taking a seat on the bed next to him, facing Celine. “Was she always that—unbalanced?” I ask carefully.

Celine shakes her head. “No, she was normal when we first met her. She was a little egotistical,” Celine admits, “but normal.”

Good thing I’m not eating or drinking at the moment, or I’d choke. I wonder how bad the new girl had to have been for _Celine_ to call her “a little egotistical.” Mild mannered Celine is not—or _was_ not, at any rate.

“But—about three months after she joined us, she started to change.”

I frown at my own mental math. I don’t like the answers I’m coming up with, so I decide to try and figure out if I’m right. “Did she start getting quiet, then sullen?” I ask. “Speaking no more than she had to, in order to get the job done, and then getting more and more violent as the jobs went on?”

Celine looks up at me in shock. “That’s exactly what happened!” she says. “How did you know?” I don’t know what expression is on my face, but Celine jumps up and takes a step away from me. “Valerie?” she asks timidly.

I force my face into a more pleasant expression. It wasn’t her fault, after all, and it’s not like she—or any of them—knew what was going on. “What is it?” I ask pleasantly.

“It’s—I--I have to go!”

“Would you like me to walk you out?” I ask. Aside from the typical hooligan children (whom even this pale version of the Celine I knew could deal with easily), there’s nothing in town that can hurt her.

“Oh, I—I’ll be fine,” she assures me before rushing out of the apartment. Luckily for her I leave it unlocked while I’m actually here.

“Did you notice?” Dargaar asks me.

He can only be referring to her diminished powers and personality. “Oh, I noticed.” I turn to him. “When did it start?”

He frowns. “I’m not sure,” he admits. “We originally didn’t know what was happening.”

“So, it was a gradual thing.” A gradual thing that started after I left—was my presence somehow protecting the others from—whatever happened—or was my absence the trigger?

Dargaar looks into space vacantly, an expression that the Tensha, or at least the ones in my experience, frequently have. “I should be going soon,” he comments.

“Well,” I say as I pull out the guitar, sit, and tune the instrument, “if you have to go _soon_ , you have time to listen to a song or two.”

He looks at me and then leans against the headboard of the bed, one leg dangling down. “Why not?” he asks with a lopsided grin. He watches me and says, “I still can’t believe you learned how to play music.”

“I learned a lot of things,” I tell him as I strum out the first few notes of the song I was chasing earlier. “The musicians who took me in taught me a lot, including the most important thing I needed to know.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s okay to be broken.”


	6. 5

The fire dances around the board, carefully, so as not to ignite it as Arnold practices. Helen watches both Arnold and Celine with concern as they argue. “Who cares what she said?” demands Arnold. For a moment the flames around the target burn hot enough to singe it before he brings them back under control.

“She described Layla’s behavior perfectly,” Celine argued.

“So?” demands Arnold.

Helen watches him, worried. She remembered that day, the one where Valerie left, and knew that he did too. He also took her leaving harder than any of the others had. She also knew that he never really forgave her for leaving. “Celine,” Helen interrupts, “do you know what Valerie meant when she said she was broken? What she was talking about?”

Celine shakes her head, glancing around to make sure that no one was listening. She knew the camera in the training hall didn’t have audio—they’d all objected to that and Luna had made sure that audio cables “mysteriously” went missing. “It didn’t come up. But—but guys, she can use her powers _without the gloves_.”

“Impossible,” says Arnold breezily.

“Is it?” asks Celine. “Have you _watched_ the old footage of us working?”

“There _is_ no footage of us working,” Arnold says. “Our technology doesn’t work around Tensha.”

“There’s footage of us getting to the blackout zones,” Celine persists. “And, after I got back, I had Luna pull it up so that we could watch it. Luna and I both came to the same conclusion.”

“And what’s that?” asks Helen. She doesn’t need to ask why Luna isn’t at the training grounds—she stopped going after Layla began getting testy with all of them.

“We used to be able to do a lot more than we can now.” The flames went out as Arnold turned to stare at her and she nods to both of them. “We could. I saw myself literally _re-grow_ someone's lost leg.” She turned to Arnold. “I saw you control a disk of fire bigger than a football field to hold back monsters while creating openings cool enough to allow civilians to escape.” She met both their eyes in turn. “These are things that we can’t do now, and I don’t know about either of you, but I don’t remember doing them in the first place.”

Arnold grasps what Celine isn’t saying quickly. “What else don’t we remember?” he asks.


	7. 6

Coolidge, the Global Alliance’s representative, looks coldly at the picture in front of him. Valerie, the retired Hero, was standing outside a hospital room with a brown paper bag. “And?” he asks.

“And Valerie—who disappeared so thoroughly that we couldn't even find a trace of her until recently—was alone, and unrecorded, with the healer for almost two hours.” Richards paces nervously. All his carefully laid plans were about to get undone by one rogue girl!

Coolidge calmly tosses the photo towards Richards. “What harm could she do?” he asks.

Richards stops pacing and glares at the portly, elderly man. “She’s the only one,” he says through clenched teeth, “that we didn’t give the therapy to.”

Coolidge sighs. “Part of that therapy,” he reminds the other man, “is in ignoring anything we didn’t program in there.” He glares at Richards. “There’s nothing she can do.” Suddenly he smiles. “But, this may be a good opportunity to use the therapy on her as well. We know where she is.”

“We know where she is _for now_ ,” frets Richards. Valerie knows secrets about him that he would just as soon see die. “But she lived with road people for almost two and a half years, and she’s prepared to leave at any moment.”

“She also made contact with the others, and protected Helen,” muses Coolidge. “You can use that. Get her in a narrow hallway, one she can’t use her sword in, and my team will do the rest.”

Richards remembered more about Valerie than Coolidge had ever known. Coolidge hadn’t even met the kids until after Valerie left—but it was her medical records that gave him the therapy they needed to properly keep the super-powered teens under control. Perhaps he knows more than Richards is giving him credit for.

“Remember,” Coolidge says as he turns back to his paperwork, “the smaller the room, the easier it will be to apprehend her.”


	8. 7

Dargaar’s Queen looks down at him from her throne. Like almost all of the Tensha’s artifacts, the throne is alive and will destroy anyone who isn’t worthy of it who gets too close. “Valkyrie saved you?” she asks.

Dargaar stays kneeling on the roots in front of her. “She found me injured, and unable to defend myself.”

“And she didn’t finish the job,” the Queen muses. “Odd, considering how hard she’s tried in the past to kill you.”

Dargaar winces at the reminder. Back when Valkyrie was active she sent him to the tanks far too many times; he had the highest rate of any of those sent to the planet. And yet—and yet when she had the chance to kill him, to finally see him dead, she didn’t take it. Instead she took him into her home, hid him from her fellow humans until she could find one to heal him—and then just let him go. True, he’d listened to her play (strange haunting music made from hollow dead wood and wires), but she’d made no move to stop him afterwards.

“And what do you think of her?”

“She’s—concerned.” Dargaar heard rumbling as the other Tensha, all watching and listening to his testimony, protest. They all know the kind of damage that Valkyrie used to deal to them, her destructive power—but he’s the only one who’s seen her recently, and she’s changed. “She’s concerned about her friends.”

“And the new one?”

“She calls the new one ‘charming little psychopath’.” For the three words Dargaar mimics Valkyrie’s voice as perfectly as he can, far better than most of the humans could.

Alacut, Queen’s aide, steps forwards. “According to the English dictionary those who thwarted us use, ‘psychopath’ is a term that means ‘a person suffering from a chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behavior.’ Based on what I have seen of Night’s behavior with other humans, the description is accurate.” He steps back, once again ceding the floor to the Queen.

“Interesting.” The Queen looks at Dargaar once more. “You spent time with her. Do you believe that she would be willing to help us?”

“I believe she would be willing,” Dargaar says slowly, “but I am not sure if she would be able.”

“Then,” the Queen says firmly, “we must find out.”


	9. 8

I stare at the elevator for a moment and then walk towards the stairs. I don’t normally have anything against elevators, but something about this whole situation screams that I’m walking into a trap, and I don’t want to make things any easier for them than I already am.

I wouldn't be here at all if I didn’t have so many unanswered questions; specifically, about what’s happened with the others while I’ve been gone. The gap between us is insanely large, and it shouldn't be. The only thing I can think of is that Mr. Richards has done—something to the others. But what though? And why? The only thing I was sure of—am sure of—is that he loves and treasures his daughter Helen. The rest of us can go to Hell in a hand basket as far as he’s concerned, but he’ll do anything to protect his daughter.

The stairs are utilitarian stainless steel with whitewashed walls and matching railings. The only color is the faded black traction guards on the edges, and the carpet on the floor is the same typically bland, geometric carpet that most generic hotels have. Before I open the door to the floor I was “requested” to go to, I pause. Well, _he’s_ cheating by setting a trap. _I_ can cheat too.

One of the things I learned, early on, with my abilities, is that I can send out my power into an area I can’t see and mentally create a three-dimensional image of it in my mind—complete with hostiles in the territory.

Speaking of hostiles;, there are seven of them. Seven men and women, in uniforms, with guns. My powers aren’t good enough to see if the guns have bullets or darts. Still—best to be prepared. Lets see—uniforms indicate professionals—and professionals, almost always go for a torso shot. The torso is, after all, a much bigger target than either the the head or the limbs, and more likely to have unexpected movement.

Now it’s time to take advantage of a trick I learned on the road. I pull my energy into my body and layer it, as armor, right between the epidermis (dead skin cells that happen to hold hair) and the dermis (the part of skin that bleeds for paper cuts). Then, just to be sure, I add another layer on top of it—under my clothes, to disguise how plastic-like the power makes my skin look. All done and ready for almost anything I open the door and stride down the hall to the hotel room I was told to go to.

It swings open in front of me revealing the source of my nightmares. For one brief moment I’m seized by an irrational desire to run—run anywhere and not stop until I’m certain he can’t find me again. However—he clearly _can_ find me, and I’m no longer the powerless child I used to be. “Mr. Richards,” I say calmly.

He opens the door and gestures to the inside. “Please, come in.”

Oh no. No, I’m not falling for _that_ twice. “I’m good out here, thanks,” I tell him firmly.

He looks startled, and then gives me what I’m sure he believes is a winning smile. I know him too well and can only think of blood-thirsty crocodiles when I look at his teeth exposed between his lips. “There are chairs inside.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m good standing,” I tell him casually. “I’ve had practice,” I add ominously.

He shifts nervously, and then smiles again. “Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” he asks. “I feel certain there are—details you don’t want others to know.”

I grin back at him. “Go ahead,” I challenge. “I’m sure those details will answer a lot of questions.”

He winces. He knows, just like I do, that if the “details” of what happened get out _I_ won’t be the one in trouble. He takes a deep breath and looks at me. “Very well. I wanted to talk to you about Layla.”

“I figured.” After all, I think he’s the only one who knows where the charming little psychopath came from. When he doesn’t continue I gesture impatiently and say, “Well?”

Hotel doors on either side of us in the hallway slowly creak open. Odd. This isn’t the right time to activate the trap. Is he even in control of these people?

He fidgets. “Well, she came in to replace you.”

So my earlier mental math was right. I sigh. “Let me see if I understand this,” I tell him. “You knew that when you—did what you did, to me, I broke.” He flinches as people slowly file into the hall with us. “You also know,” I continue mercilessly, “that the only thing that saved your sorry ass was your daughter. So the first thing you do with someone who _isn’t_ a childhood friend of your daughter and _is_ still powerful is the exact same shit?” I turn to look at the people behind me. “Can you believe that stupidity?” They’re wearing knit Kevlar full body suits with vests. They’re holding handguns. Again, I don’t know enough to tell if the guns are real or dart. I sigh and turn back to Mr. Richards. “You sure have a type,” I add acidly.

Mr. Richards is beginning to sweat. “She wants to kill me.”

“At this point it’s karma,” I inform him before turning to leave. Now, now is the time for them to attack.

“You have to help!” he says desperately. Oh, poor baby; he really sounds scared. Without turning around I flip him off. One of the suited people rushed forwards to attack me—and I easily evade. When I’m behind him I tap the back of his neck with the point of my finger. “Don’t move,” I warn him. “Boy, you must not have done your research about me; let me educate you. My power allows me to manipulate my energy. If I want to, I can send just a sliver of energy, just solidly enough, to sever your spinal cord.” I can see small beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck.

Eight darts impact my back and another five hit my front. I look down to see the darts, still embedded in the hardened energy, sticking out. “Perhaps I should be grateful you still want me alive,” I comment wryly. A slight twist of my energy and the darts fall, harmlessly, to the floor.

Several of the ones in front of me start backing away, slowly. “What are you going to do now?” asks the one kneeling in front of me.

“Hmm? Oh, I’m planning to go back to town, get my guitar from the repair shop, and go to the library to see if anyone has advice on how to keep small children from trying to feed the instrument.” I ponder that a moment. “Actually, it might not be a bad idea to ask the repair guy. I’m sure he’s got some stories to share; maybe one of them will be useful.”

“So you’re just going to waltz out and live a peaceful life?” snarls one of the uniformed people to my left. “You’re property of the Global Alliance!”

I wave my free finger at the shouter. “Tsk, tsk,” I scold. “Someone hasn’t been paying attention to the law—when I first got got these powers I was a minor. According to Fergusson V Globe, no one can ‘belong’ to the Global Alliance unless they _agree_ to be in the army of the Global Alliance, and that is a decision that a minor, who has to obey her parents and guardians, can’t make on her own.” I grin at the person. “And,” I add, “given that I left when I turned eighteen, and never joined a public Global Alliance battle _after_ the age of eighteen, when I left I severed my connection to _all_ of the armies involved with the Global Alliance. I have survived, and thrived, on my own in the rest of the world, and,” I add viciously, “I am not considered a danger to myself or others.”

I take a step back and the man in front of me falls forward. “Of course,” I add thoughtfully, “even if I _was_ a danger, it’s not like any of _you_ have the ability to stop me.” Fergusson was a great guy, genuinely worried about what forcing teenagers to war an enemy that adults can’t handle for years, in high stress, high danger environments, would do to their psyches. I have my own reasons for agreeing with the lawsuit, even if the riots caused by it almost got me killed multiple times.

I hear a click and the disturbingly familiar sound of pressurized gas escaping a contained environment. Quickly I pull my energy together to make a face mask that only allows oxygen in. I can’t hold it for very long, or I’ll hyperventilate, but it should be enough for me to clear this next threat.

I didn’t even consider the possibility of gas—none of the uniformed people are wearing masks. There also aren’t any more of them on this level. What’s going on?

When I whirl I see that the people closest to the source of the smoke are coughing—except for Mr. Richards, who’s on all fours, on the floor, with a grenade pin in his hand. The people around us start to collapse; apparently the smoke is also a sedative.

“Please,” Mr. Richards says. “Please help Helen.” He looks up and I can see the naked desperation on his face. “They put a bomb in her!”

A bomb? In Helen? How? And, given that Celine heals her on a regular basis, where could it possibly be that Celine hasn’t found it?

I don’t have the air to say anything, so I just leave and bring my energy back into myself as I reach clean air—only to promptly choke and cough. I forgot the chemicals would attach to my clothes. At least it’s not enough to worry about the sedative effects, and I can still move while coughing.

Helen and I have been friends since we were children. We took swim classes together, worked on school projects together, miserably failed at having a table at the school bake sale together. Helen’s always had a bright, open, and shining personality. When the group first moved into a single place, Helen was the one that brokered truces—especially between Celine and Arnold.

There is no way that Celine would allow a bomb to stay in Helen—unless she doesn’t know about it. And then again—there is the odd personality shift that Celine seems to have had. What’s up with that? Could whatever caused the shift be responsible for her not seeing the bomb?

How do I even know there _is_ a bomb? Mr. Richards is human slime and has no problem with lying to get whatever reaction he wants from people. Still, the _one_ person that Mr. Richards loves would have to be Helen—making her a weak spot.

I don’t have enough information. I continue on my way towards the repair shop (a few streets down from the town’s only hotel), and go in to get my guitar again. Dale, the shop owner/maintenance/repair/replacement person (who works with both stringed and wind instruments) signals for me to wait as a preteen on a stool gently strums the strings of the guitar that she’s holding. She looks up. “How did that sound?” she asks.

“Try each string in turn,” I recommend as I lean against the counter. “Sometimes string instruments hide a sour cord.”

“Not in my shop,” mutters Dale.

“True,” I admit, “but your shop isn’t the only one in the world, and it’s a good practice to get into.”

Dale sighs and adjusts his glasses. “That’s true enough. Try the other strings Sophie.”

I wait patiently as the girl tries another two guitars and then buys one. “Wait a minute,” I protest, “what about the case? A guitar case is important.”

“I can’t afford both a guitar _and_ a guitar case,” the girl protests.

“No, Valley is right,” Dale says. “So here’s what I’m going to do. The two of us are going to set up a payment plan.”

“Like for lay-a-way?”

He winces. “Something like, yes. In this case, though, instead of me setting it aside until you’ve paid it all off, you’ll be taking it home. However,” he admonishes sternly, “if you don’t make your payments I get both the guitar and the guitar case back!” She nods excitedly and hands over her money as she waits for him to put the guitar in its case and then leaves with it.

“I hope she enjoys playing,” I say.

“Oh, she’ll probably play long enough to get blisters, set the thing down, and never pick it up again,” Dale says as he heads to the door that leads to his workshop. I stay where I am; he doesn’t like having people back there.

“Well, aren’t _you_ pessimistic,” I say as he comes back out with my guitar case. He opens it to show me the guitar and I pull it out to strum it a few times.

“Anyone would be pessimistic after cleaning that mess,” he informs me. “What happened?”

I grimace. “I was playing at a kids party when suddenly I was surrounded by three kids who wanted to feed the guitar pizza, ice cream, and party cake.” He shudders and I shake my head as I pull the strap around myself to test out the wires. Not that Dale would do anything less than a good job, but he’s not the only music repairman in the world.

He watches me tune the thing. “There’s nothing wrong with the tuning knobs,” he informs me.

“I know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the tuning board or the fingerboard.”

“I’m aware,” I say as I strum slightly on each string, keeping the vibrations down to prevent it from getting too loud.

“I don’t know why the damn thing won’t keep a tune.”

I grin as I detune the instrument and carefully lay it back in the case. “You know what they say about old instruments,” I tell him with a wink. “They develop minds of their own.”

He snorts. “That,” he says primly, “is complete and utter bullshit, as you well know.”

“Is it?” I ask with a bland smile before leaving.

“Keep those kids from putting food in it!” I laugh and wave as I head over to the park where I join the group and play for a little while. I like playing solo, but there’s just something fulfilling about playing in a group with other people. Besides, people in the park are tipping well today, and I get a good haul, considering that it’s split between four people.

“Later Valley-Girl!” calls one of the other musicians—a total blast on an electric violin.


	10. 9

I wave and continue on to the apartment. I’m slightly surprised to see three people waiting for me—far more surprised to see that one of them is Arnold than I am that one of them is Luna. Arnold clenches his teeth and turns away from me as I walk up the steps. “I didn’t know I was expecting company today,” I comment as I walk up and unlock the door.

“We came on impulse,” Luna informs me as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“We have something to ask you,” adds Celine.

Arnold, to no surprise, says nothing. “Well, welcome and come in,” I tell them as I open the door. “I’ve only got one chair though, so I’ll see if I can borrow a few more.” As Luna and Celine file into the apartment I walk back down the stairs. Arnold, surprising no one, does nothing.

Why is he even here? He can’t even bring himself to look at me. I know he feels betrayed by my leaving, but does he have to be so...so...juvenile about it?

Luckily for me Mr. Tucker’s on the back porch sneaking a small cigar. Mrs. Johnson doesn’t like it when he smokes. “Mr. Tucker,” I call as I get close, “I’ve got some company. May I borrow a few chairs?”

He takes a deep drag on the thin cigar and coughs the smoke out again. The chronic cough is one of the reasons Mrs. Johnson doesn’t approve of his smoking. “You have company?” he asks.

“Some old friends of mine tracked me down and want to catch up.” Completely true (as far as I know), but phrasing it that way makes it sound like something different than what it is.

“Must have been important, for them to track you down to this little hick town,” comments Mr. Tucker calmly.

I frown. That’s a good point—especially for Arnold. Why, if he dislikes me so much, would he even bother coming to the apartment I’m in? I shake my head. “Well,” I say with a shrug, “I’m not going to find out standing around here.”

Mr. Tucker nods. “Take the chairs from the kitchen. They’re lighter.”

They’re also less expensive, and less likely to give his daughter an apoplexy if she finds out I borrowed them. “Thanks, Mr. Tucker,” I say as I head to the kitchen.

As I reach it Mrs. Johnson comes into the room. “Valley,” she says primly, “I have a request.”

Given that I’m essentially a homeless person crashing on her couch, she can request almost anything. “What is it?” I ask.

She sighs and lowers herself down into the wicker chair—one of the three wicker chairs that I was going to take up to the apartment. “Tucker has agreed that the two of us will watch our daughter’s children tomorrow,” she says wearily.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” I ask. “You’re always complaining that you don’t get enough time to spend with them.”

“Well, yes,” she admits. “But—we’ve never had the children by ourselves, and Tucker and I are much more—fragile--than we used to be.” She takes a deep breath and looks at me. “Will you please help us? Children love you.”

Children love to try and feed my guitar. Still, I grin at her. “Sure,” I say amiably. “What time are they coming over?”

“I’m not sure,” Mrs. Johnson says. “She said she’ll be bringing them by after school tomorrow.”

“So, around three, three-thirty in the afternoon,” I say. “I got it; I’ll do my best to be here.”

“Thank you Valley.” Mrs. Johnson gets out of the chair. She sighs and stops, leaning on her cane. “I’m not sure what to do,” she says in a confused, weak voice.

“First of all, buy some sweets from Brandy’s,” I tell her.

“Oh, but they’re not supposed to have sugared treats.”

“You’re their grandmother,” I say breezily. “You’re supposed to spoil them. At least,” I add with a wink, “when their parents aren’t watching.” She laughs and walks out as I go over and grab the three chairs.

“Because she’s a coward who abandoned us!” roars Arnold just as I get to the door.

“Are you talking about me?” I ask as I go into the apartment. I close the door behind me and wonder how it never occurred to any of them to close the door. I grew up with these people, and I know they weren’t born in a barn! “I told you,” I repeat as I set up the chairs, “I was broken, and had to leave to heal.” I swing the guitar’s case around, pull it off, and pull the guitar out before I start tuning it. Time to experiment a bit.

“Just what happened?” asks Celine.

Now _that_ is a question I don’t want to directly answer. Helen may be the same age we are, but she’s still Mr. Richards’s daughter, and there are some things people shouldn't have to know about their parents. “Have you ever wondered how, when Celine was capable of healing hurts almost instantly and none of us were the type to ‘experiment’ with controlled substances, those adults in charge of us knew that we were far more susceptible to those substances?” I ask.

“What are you saying?” asks Luna.

I look up at her. “I’m saying that when you know the answer to my question, you’ll know the answer to yours.” I lightly strum on the guitar. “So what brings the three of you here, where I’m staying?”

“Don’t you mean your home?” demands Arnold testily.

“This isn’t my home,” I tell him. He turns and stares at me for the first time. “This is a place I wandered into, and place I might wander out of at any given moment. The people who own this apartment recognize that,” I add.

“Never mind that,” interrupts Celine. She looks at me. “After our—conversation the other day, I did some research.”

I wait, but she seems to be done. “And?” I prompt.

“And,” Luna takes up, “in the pre-zone footage we’re doing things we don’t remember being able to do.”

My shock translates into a discordant series of notes and I look up and stare at her. “What?” I ask. “How can you _not_ remember?” I turn several possibilities over in my head, and I don’t like any of them. I set the guitar aside to give my full attention to the three people in front of me. “What do you, as of right now, think you’re capable of doing?”

“I can pick up and throw cars,” Luna says.

Luna once picked up the iron skeleton of a building so she could whack a monster with it. True, the skeleton probably wasn’t as heavy as it would have been with bricks and insulation, and the monster _did_ piss her off—but it’s still a long way from a car.

“I can heal any piercing injury,” Celine states.

Celine once brought someone back from the dead. True, the person hadn’t been dead for very long (three minutes tops), and it _was_ a child—but still a lot more potent than what she’s describing now.

“If I concentrate I can hold small flames around a target without destroying it.”

Arnold once took a raging forest fire, divided it into small bits, and used it to flame broil a monster while at the same time providing safe, non-lethal warmth to civilian refugees who were, quite literally, freezing.

“How the hell did this happen?” I ask. I’m afraid to find out how much Helen’s power has decreased. And, if their powers have decreased to this degree, how is it that the Tensha haven’t conquered us by now? Why are we having _truce talks_ instead of _surrender with rights_? I take a deep breath and then tell them everything they used to be able to do.

At the end of the monologue I sigh and look at them again. “I suppose,” I say wearily, “that with all this—” words flit through my head like “neutering” and I force myself not to say it, “going on, that it’s too much to ask if you were able to figure out why Tensha seem to disrupt all communications.”

“Yeah,” says Luna with a grimace. “I haven’t had much luck with that.”

Well, at least Luna still likes computers. That’s _something_ , at any rate. I frown. “Maybe you’ve had more than you think,” I say as I calculate. “Is there any way you can, I don’t know, track what you’ve done?”

“You think someone's done this to us on purpose, don’t you?” Celine says.

“Well, I can’t think of any way it could happen naturally,” I protest. “ _I_ certainly haven’t had the same problems, and the only difference is that I’m not with the rest of you.” I scan the three faces in front of me to figure out if they’ve understood what I’m saying. “I haven’t had the same things the rest of you have.” And, whatever it is, it clearly wasn’t enough to curb the charming little psychopath. Clearly; somehow she figured out how to teleport.

“I bet,” says Luna as she nibbles a fingernail nervously, “that I can write a program. One that’ll still have me access it even if my memories get reset.”

“Good idea,” I say. I don’t know why her computer skills weren’t touched—but someone is going to realize that was a mistake. I recognize the gleam in her eyes.

Suddenly Celine slams a fist into an open palm and growls. “I can’t believe,” she says through grit teeth, “they’d dare. That they’d dare do this to _us_!”

Well, there’s a hint of the Celine I know. “You’ll have to go at it carefully,” I tell them. “I don’t know who’s in charge of this having been done, but whoever it is won’t take well to you realizing it’s _been_ done and getting yourselves back.”

Arnold gives a sudden, sharp nod. “We’ll be careful,” he says. He looks at me and adds, “You need to be at tomorrow’s meeting.”

I stare blankly at him as Luna claps her hands together and says, “That’s a great idea!”

“Meeting?” I ask. “What meeting?” I ask suspiciously as Celine chimes in enthusiastically.

“There’s a meeting about the terms of the truce, from our side, tomorrow,” Luna begins.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I tell them. “Hold up—I’m not a part of the group anymore. For three years, until Dargaar collapsed in front of me, I hadn’t even seen a Tensha!”

“But you had three years of experience fighting Tensha before that,” Luna points out.

“And your experiences these last three years are nothing to sneeze at,” Celine continues.

“Besides,” Arnold points out, “your the only one who isn’t suffering from whatever the Hell they did to the rest of us.”

Sure, bring _logic_ into it. I sigh. “When and where is the meeting?” I ask. “Whatever happens, I have to be back _here_ by three in the afternoon.”

“No problem,” Luna informs me. “The meeting starts at seven.”

I haven’t gotten _up_ at seven in the morning for years, never mind functioning. “Right,” I say dully. “So, where is it?”

“City Hall. I’m sure, given the press coverage, someone can give you directions.”

“There are going to be press _inside_ the meeting?” I’m relatively nondescript, but not that anonymous. I don’t want everyone and their mother knowing what I look like and how I connect to the Heroes. That’s just asking for trouble I don’t need. Or want.

“Of _course_ not,” Celine tells me as she rolls her eyes. Nice to see slivers of her original personality shining through. “They’ll just be all _around_ the building.”

Luckily there are enough mundane tasks to take someone to city hall that I won’t be particularly noticeable. Still… “Won’t it raise red flags if someone goes around asking to find the place the super secret meeting is being held?” I ask

“That’s a good point,” Luna admits. Then she grins. “Tell you what, I’ll wait in the lobby, out of sight of the doors, and lead you to the meeting room.”

That’s still kind of conspicuous, but better than nothing, I suppose.


End file.
